


Regina

by Georgina



Category: Magic Mike (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 21:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9023779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Georgina/pseuds/Georgina
Summary: When Mike meets Rome, he’s young, dumb, and full of himself.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Frostfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frostfire/gifts).



> Dear Frostfire: When I was looking through the Yuletide prompts, I saw your lovely request for Rome/Mike backstory. I've been hoping somebody would write that since I saw the movie, so I decided to be the _Magic Mike_ story I want to see in the world.
> 
> Happy holidays!

When Mike meets Rome, he’s young, dumb, and full of himself.

He’s spent the past few days hitchhiking from Nowhere, Mississippi to Anywhere But Here, and he’s been robbed once, hit on twice, and nearly stabbed by a guy at a rest stop over a Pop-Tart. (The guy seems off his head on something, but really, Mike thinks: if he’s going to be stabbed, at least let it be over something that’ll give him a cool story to tell the guys back home.) By the time he makes it to Savannah he’s exhausted and almost broke, so he finds a ratty motel room and sleeps the day away. 

That night, he grabs a six-pack of ramen and the local alt-weekly newspaper. He turns to the classifieds in the back as he eats.

Mike’s under no illusions about his job prospects. He knows his marketable skills are as follows: he’s twenty, he’s hot, and he can move his body in ways people generally find pleasing, so his options are working in a strip club or one of those retro diners where the waiters get up and dance on the counters. Stripping seems like less work, more fun, and more likely to end up with a girl blowing him at the end of the night with gratitude in her eyes, so.

Tucked amid the endless ads for escorts and Live Nude Girls, Mike finds a tiny ad for a club named Domina. There’s a photograph of a naked male torso on one side, and a brief bit of come-hither text on the other. The first Fridays of the month have an amateur hour. The winner gets $50 and the chance to become a regular dancer.

It’s the first Wednesday of the month now. Mike strolls back to his hotel room, whistling.

 

It takes him three buses to get to Domina, and the neighbourhoods get progressively worse as he goes. Mike eventually comes to a halt in front of large, brightly-lit building with a silhouette of a naked woman on the roof. It’s clearly not what he’s looking for, but he can’t find anything else that looks like a strip club tucked amongst the warehouses and junk-filled lots. He walks up and down the street a couple of times, squinting at numbers, then realises the small, dingy-looking door next to the neon shrine isn’t actually a part of it, but a separate establishment.

The bouncer is a large hill of a man. He waves three giggling girls inside, then says to Mike, “You sure you’re in the right place, son?”

“This is where they have the amateur hour, right?”

The bouncer might be smirking, or it might just be a trick of the light. He waves one massive hand towards the side of the building and says, “Green door.”

Mike walks round the corner, shifting his hips as he goes. 

Lesson one: Next time, he’ll _bring_ the thong with him and put it on inside.

 

Lesson two is that Mike probably should’ve prepared for this. There’s seven or eight guys milling around the little dressing room, and they all seem way more organised than he is. Some of them have costumes. Most of them have body oil. There’s even a couple of props.

Mike has his itchy thong and a CD.

A woman in a slim white pantsuit appears in the doorway. She’s tiny, but she seems to fill the space.

“I’m Rome,” she announces, her finger sweeping around the room. “Don’t embarrass me out there.”

And then she’s gone.

 

The outside of Domina may look like a shack, but inside is all dark, messy opulence. The baroque wallpaper is fading, the Oriental rugs are worn, and the chairs are plush and mismatched. The crystal glasses are as cut as the bartenders’ bare chests.

None of it goes together, but that seems kind of the point. Nothing about this place is ordinary.

And neither is the woman who owns it.

“My queens,” Rome says, strolling through the tables, a call-to-arms and beckoning both. “I’ve got a small problem that I’m hoping you can help me with. I picked up a couple of fresh young colts tonight, but I’m not sure whether I’m going to keep them in the stable, if you know what I mean.”

The small room is filled to near-capacity, and yes, they seem to know what she means.

“Do you think you can help me decide? Is that something you can help me with?”

They definitely can.

“Thank you, ladies. I knew I could count on you.”

The lights dim, and the first amateur walks onto the stage.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Mike’s standing by the side of the stage, clutching his CD in surprisingly sweaty fingers. Isaiah, the DJ, is arguing with a guy who wants to be introduced as Sex Machine.

“Rome would have my balls,” Isaiah says, shaking his head. “What’s your name?”

“Sex Mach—“

“Your real name.”

“Darnell,” the guy mumbles.

Two minutes later, Isaiah pulls the mic down to his mouth. “Give it up, ladies, for Delicious Darnell!”

Great. Mike can’t wait to see what name Isaiah comes up with for him.

 

Magic Mike does not win the amateur hour. He does get more applause than Delicious Darnell, though.

 

Mike leans against the front wall of the club with a sigh. Three buses back to the motel, and he’s pretty sure the middle one stopped running already. He can probably walk it, but that’s a couple of hours in unfamiliar neighbourhoods in the middle of the night, and he’s watched enough TV to know that never ends well for the hero.

“You got a light?” a girl says to him. She looks a couple of years older than he is, with bouncy black curls and dark eyes.

Mike fumbles in his pockets. He doesn’t smoke, but he knows the answer when a pretty girl asks you for a light and he always comes prepared. He cups his other hand around the flame, leaning towards her, and she gives him a wink of thanks.

“You were one of the amateurs, right?”

He nods. “Mike.”

“I’m Tiana.”

“Good to meet you, Tiana. What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

Tiana points to a group standing nearby. The guys are hooting loudly, slapping one of their friends on the back, as a girl looks on with amusement.

“My roommate’s boyfriend was one of the other amateurs. Malcolm. His frat brothers made him do it.”

Mike remembers Malcolm. He’d looked pretty terrified beforehand, but he got into it once the music started.

“You didn’t want to stay for the rest of the show?” Mike says.

“I wouldn’t have minded, but Charity thinks watching professional strippers breaks her vow to God.”

“But not watching amateur strippers?”

“Guess you aren’t good enough. God doesn’t care.”

“She can be such a bitch sometimes,” Mike says, and then, to clarify: “God, not Charity.”

“You think God is a woman?”

“Yeah,” Mike says. “You?”

“I think if God is a woman, she really fucked things up.”

“Tiana!” Charity calls. “Let’s get out of here.”

Tiana smiles up at Mike, pulling a dimple into one cheek. “You want to come?”

“Yes, please,” Mike says, with enthusiastic double entendre. 

Tiana rolls her eyes, but she’s also blushing. Score.

 

The six of them head back to Tiana and Charity’s apartment. Mike’s just chilling, going with the flow, taking a beer when it’s offered, not saying much. He’s got a pretty girl on his lap and a drink in his hand; this is pretty much his ideal Friday night.

Jarred, who seems to be the designated asshole of the group, looks Mike over. “So you’re a stripper,” he sneers.

Mike’s not a stripper, clearly. He couldn’t even win a damn amateur hour. He shrugs.

“I just don’t get how that works,” Jarred says. “Women aren’t visual the way men are.”

“Yeah.” Mike nuzzles behind Tiana’s ear. “You like me for my personality, right?”

“Right,” Tiana says.

“So let’s go… talk.”

Tiana grins and leads him into her bedroom.

Mike waves to Jarred as he follows.

 

The next morning, Mike takes Tiana out to breakfast. Nobody can say he’s not a gentleman.

That night, he goes back to the club. 

“Hey, man,” he says to the bouncer. “I was one of the amateurs last night, and I think I left my phone in the dressing room. Mind if I go and check?” 

The bouncer shrugs and waves him around the back. 

Mike stands in the hallway, wondering how he’s going to find Rome, and then she whirls right by him like a pocket tornado.

“Rome,” he says.

“Busy,” Rome says, not breaking stride. Her long, thin braids are whipping behind her.

“Please,” Mike says, and then adds, “ma’am.”

Rome turns around slowly, one eyebrow raised. “You got my attention, boy. Do something good with it.”

“I’m Mike,” he says, and she looks at him blankly. “Magic Mike? I was a dancer here last night? In the amateur hour?” 

Something about the way she’s looking at him is making him nervous? So he’s ending every sentence with a question?

“Sure,” Rome says. “And?”

Mike has a whole speech prepared, but it’s sounding kind of stupid in his head now. Still, he didn’t catch those three buses again for nothing. “I was the best dancer up here, and I think…“

“Yeah, you were.”

“…I deserve a second….” He trails off. “I was?”

“You were the best dancer,” Rome says. “It don’t mean you were the best stripper.”

Mike took his clothes off. He was wearing a thong. What more does she want?

“You were dancing for you, honey,” Rome says, and her voice is almost kind.

“And I should’ve been dancing for…” Mike hazards a guess. “You?”

Rome looks amused.

“Rome, there’s a problem out front,” a woman named Carmen says, pushing through the curtain. Based on what she was doing last night, Mike’s guessing Carmen is Rome’s second-in-command. “One of your queens is having a royal hissyfit. Something about being on the list?”

“The list,” Rome says with a snort. “What does she think we are, Studio 54?” She strides off down the hallway, giving rapid-fire instructions to Carmen as she trails behind her. “Borrow a couple of bottles of vodka from next door, Chip said we’re low. The leftmost spotlight is dimming, so we might need to change the bulb. And send complimentary cocktails to the sorority girls by the stage. They’re making it rain so hard, those boys are going to need umbrellas tonight.”

Mike has already been forgotten.

He looks round, waiting for somebody to throw him out, but the hallway is empty now. He can hear distinctly feminine cheering from the main room — whoever’s on the stage, he’s a definite crowd-pleaser — but everything’s quiet back here.

Mike looks around again, then wanders down the hallway. A makeshift dressing room, a storage closet, and a tiny kitchenette, and the whole things ends in a dingy-looking rehearsal space. There’s a couple of tables and chairs pushed to one side, and age-spotted mirrors line the wall.

Clearly, all the money was spent front-of-house.

A guy’s standing in the middle of the room in nothing but a pair of briefs, rolling his hips like waves on the ocean. He works them one way, and then the other, watching himself in the mirror.

“Definitely the first one,” Mike says from the doorway. “Makes your abs pop.”

The guys looks over. “Who are you?”

“I’m nobody,” Mike says. “But I’m Mike.”

“Taye,” the guy says with a nod. He rolls his hips again. “Yeah, you’re right.” Taye is all tall and lithe, with dreadlocks to his shoulders and a piercing through his septum, and Mike will never be that cool.

Carmen strides up next to Mike. “You’re up next,” she says to Taye. She gives Mike a quizzical look, then strides off again.

“All yours,” Taye says to Mike on his way past.

“Thanks,” Mike says.

Mike leans on the edge of the table. There’s several stacks of CDs resting next to a portable stereo, and he flicks through them idly, not recognising many of the names. He chooses one at random and slips it in, imagining the kind of routine he might build around it.

Next time, he’s going to be more prepared.

The second song he tries has a good, lively beat. Mike picks up the stereo and dances across the room with it, a hip-hop Fred Astaire with his electronic Ginger Rogers. He twirls around and around, and—

Rome is leaning against the door jamb, watching him.

Mike fumbles the music off. “Hi.”

“I don’t remember inviting you to stay.”

“I really want this job,” he says. “Just tell me what you want and I’ll do it.”

Mike can’t go home with his tail between his legs. Not yet. Home means working a dead-end job for a dead-end boss, because there’s nothing else going on in his podunk town.

Rome gives him a slow once-over. Mike tries not to fidget.

“You’ve got some hustle in you,” she says eventually. “I like that.” 

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“And you’re a very good dancer.”

Mike tries a little grin. “Okay, you’ve talked me into it. When do I start?”

Rome strolls into the room, her heels echoing off the polished floor. “It’s not about dancing,” she says. “It’s not even about sex. You’re not going to fuck every one of those women out there, right?”

“It’d be hard, ma’am, but I’d be willing to try.”

“Those queens want to be _worshipped_ ,” Rome says. “They want to be _seduced_. They want to pretend, for as long as you’re up there on the stage, that they don’t have a shitty job and a shitty life and a shitty boyfriend who spends so little time down in their business, you’d think they were allergic to pussy juice. You’re selling them a fantasy. The fantasy of you.”

Rome takes a step closer, cupping Mike’s chin in her hand. Even with her stilettos on, she has to reach up to do it. 

“You ever seduced a woman? Or do you just flash that little grin of yours and they spread their legs?”

Mike chuckles, because she’s not that far from the truth. He was popular in high school, okay?

Rome pats his cheek, but it seems dismissive, somehow, and even more so when she turns away. She pulls one of the chairs out from under the table and puts it in the middle of the room, then places the stereo beside it.

“Close the door,” she says, not even looking at him. It’s just this side of a command, and Mike’s stomach twitches.

He closes the door.

Rome sits down in the chair and leans back, legs stretched out in front of her, heels planted firmly on the floor. She forwards to another track on the CD. “Show me what you got.”

Mike closes his eyes, feeling the beat move through him. Slow and heavy, it’s like an industrial grinder having sex with a steel girder, but he can work with this. He pops his shoulders, then lets the energy flow down his arms and up again, moving through his torso, spiking his hips. He sweeps down to the floor.

“No, no, no,” Rome says. “Stop. Turn that off.”

The room is silent after he’s obeyed her. All Mike can hear is his own breathing, rough and uncertain.

“What am I going to do with you, boy?” Rome says, slowly shaking her head. “So much potential, so little understanding.”

“So tell me what I need to understand.”

“This ain’t your fourth grade ballet recital. My queens aren’t coming to watch you dance and clap politely at the end. You need to engage them, draw them in, make them part of the performance.” She smiles slightly. “You need to make them wet.”

Mike makes a frustrated sound. He knows what she means about engagement, but he doesn’t know what to change.

“Okay,” Rome says. “Right now, in this moment, make me feel like I’m the most important woman in the world.”

Mike rocks back onto his heels. He stares at Rome, chin cocked, a small smile on his face.

“No, that’s you again. Make _me_ feel important.”

“Usually I’d just offer to fuck you,” Mike says. “That tends to make a woman feel important.”

“If you’re not going to take this seriously—“

“No, no, I am,” Mike says, holding up his hands. “Let me think a moment.” 

He walks around in a small circle, shaking out his muscles, thinking. How does he make a woman feel important? 

Rome taps her foot on the floor.

Mike lowers his head, gazing at Rome through his lashes. 

“Now you’re getting it,” she says. “Turn that feeling into movement.”

Mike shifts his shoulders, slow and rolling, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

“Add a little more.”

Mike lets the energy flow through his chest again, but this time, every movement he makes is for her. He twists his thumb in the hem of his t-shirt, exposing his rolling abs, then lets it fall down again.

“That’s it,” Rome says. “Make me wonder what it’d be like to fuck you.”

Mike shifts himself down to the floor, one knee and then the other, his hips moving slow and lazy like a summer’s day. He leans back and pulls off his shirt, teasing it up over his torso as he watches Rome, thinking about what it’d be like to have those long nails of hers scratching down his chest, over his hipbones.

Rome shifts slightly.

Yeah, Mike thinks. You want a piece of me?

He rolls onto his shoulders, then flips up to his feet in one smooth motion.

“Nice,” Rome says, low and throaty. 

Okay, so he’s got her attention. Now how’s he going to keep it?

_They want to be seduced_ , she said.

So Mike tries to seduce her. With his body. With his dancing. With the way he meets her gaze and doesn’t let go, watching what turns her on, modifying his moves to keep doing the things she likes and discarding the things she doesn’t. He ends the song on his knees in front of her, because he’s getting the feeling that’s exactly where Rome would like a boy like him to be.

Rome considers him for what feels like forever. Then, 

“You’ve might’ve noticed a little something about my business.” 

Yeah, Mike noticed he was one of two white guys in the room last night, and the other one was a bartender, but whatever.

He looks at the chair she’s sitting on instead. “That’s an Eames knockoff, right? You have great taste in furniture. Mid-century’s coming back in a big way.” Shop was Mike’s favourite class in high school, and for a hot minute, he entertained the idea of crafting furniture for a living, but the economic realities hit him real fast.

Rome raises an eyebrow, and Mike smiles in the way he knows is adorable. Many women have told him so right before they gave him something they probably shouldn’t, like money or their panties.

(The money, he always returned eventually. The panties, he sometimes kept.)

“You’ll do,” Rome says eventually. “Even black women like a little white chocolate now and then.”

“Just call me dessert,” Mike says cheerfully.

“Dessert?” Rome says. “Nobody can say you don’t dream big.”

 

Mike turns out to be the appetiser, or maybe not even that. He’s the amuse-bouche. Going on to a barely warmed-up crowd is tough, and it’s even tougher when he’s not what they were expecting.

Still, he throws himself into it, peels off his clothes and fucks the stage like his life depends on it. It kind of does. His money’s getting dangerously low, and he still needs to find some place cheaper to stay than the motel.

He feels a little weird afterwards. A tiny bit hollow. Or maybe that’s just all the ramen in his belly. Mike picks up a burger with the lot and extra fries on the way home, and it tastes like success.

 

Domina is only open Friday and Saturday nights, and Mike’s not making that much, so he also gets a job in construction. It’s hard, hot work and he hates every second of it. 

People who talk about the great American tradition of an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay have probably never tiled a roof in 100 degree heat. Those people are full of shit.

 

Mike’s towelling himself off when Taye pokes his head into the dressing room. “Rome’s ready to see you.”

The club’s winding down for the night. The queens have been ushered out, and the bartenders are wiping everything down as Carmen sweeps the glitter from the stage. Mike pulls on his clothes and goes up the rickety steps to Rome’s office. It’s a little room tucked beneath the rafters, with a sloping ceiling on one side and a huge, battered desk in the middle.

There’s a mess of papers spread out before Rome. She’s entering figures into a ledger, and she doesn’t look happy.

“Hello?” Mike says. He hasn’t really spoken to Rome since he was hired two weeks ago. He sees her, of course, striding around the club, doing a dozen things at once, but they haven’t interacted beyond Mike giving Rome her cut at the end of each night.

He pushes a small pile of bills across the table. 

“How are you finding everything?” she says, counting the money. “The boys treating you right?”

“We’re all playing well together,” Mike says. Actually, the other dancers have been surprisingly welcoming. Taye, who turns out to do double-duty as the group choreographer, incorporated Mike into the opening and closing routines without fuss, and a couple of the other guys took Mike on a shopping trip for body oil and thongs. Taye also helped Mike find a cheap room in an apartment block on his street, so Mike’s been able to bum a ride home with him every night. If things keep going the way they are, he might be able to afford his own beater car in a couple of months.

Rome writes Mike’s total in her ledger. It isn’t very much.

“You need a better routine,” she says. “You can’t keep on just getting up there and taking off your clothes.”

Yeah, Mike’s definitely not connecting with the audience the way that some of the other dancers do, and by ‘connecting with the audience’, he means making bank.

“Come up with something fresh,” Rome says. “Hit me with some ideas.”

“Construction worker?” Mike says. It’s a classic, and he can borrow the stuff he needs from work.

“Middle-class white girls fantasise about slumming it with a construction worker. How many middle-class white girls have you seen in my audience lately?”

“There was a pair of them last night,” Mike says, but he knows what she means. “What do your queens fantasise about, then?”

Rome looks him over with a critical eye. “You’re the quarterback.”

“I am?” Mike says. He was never much one for organised sports.

“The cocky college hero who won’t give them the time of day.”

“Football jersey and those tight pants?”

“Could work,” Rome says, tapping her finger against her lower lip. “Or maybe something more preppy.”

“Preppy,” Mike says doubtfully.

“The prep school boy in the navy blue blazer and the striped tie. Glasses. Books. A total gentleman until you bring a queen up on stage and grind your ass on her.”

Mike looks down at his hoodie and baggy jeans. He’s never dressed preppy in his life.

“Just think about it,” Rome says, in that tone that means, _Think about it very hard_. “Bring me something next Saturday.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

On Saturday afternoon, Mike shows up for rehearsal. They work on a new group number in navy whites for the 4th of July weekend, then run through the entire show from start to finish. Rome sits at one of the tables and calls out changes.

“All right,” she says eventually. “Who’s got a present for mama?”

She means new routines. She approves three of them, tells the fourth to work with Taye to give his transitions more pop, and calls Caleb up to the stage. He’s the guy who won the amateur night, and Mike feels a bit of a rivalry with him. 

Caleb is dressed like a construction worker. Rome makes an exasperated sound.

The air conditioning cuts out a moment later. Of course it does, Mike thinks. Rome is displeased.

“Show us what you’ve got,” Rome says to Caleb, “it’ll come back on shortly,” but by the time Caleb is down to a reflective yellow thong and hard hat, the room is stifling hot.

“I don’t like it,” Rome says to Caleb. She throws a hand to the ceiling as though she can speak to the essence of the building itself. “And I really don’t like this.” 

Carmen comes striding back into the main room. “Nothing’s blocking the intake.”

Rome pulls her phone out of her pocket and makes a call. “Tell Mr J we’re dying over here.”

Taye goes to open the front door — it’s 3pm, none of Rome’s queens are going to be turning up now anyway — and returns with not only the faintest summer breeze but also a blonde woman in skinny jeans and heels.

The blonde rubs her thumbs against her first two fingers. “Mr J says no money, no air.”

“I’m not even three weeks behind,” Rome says. “Mr J can suck my dick.”

“Oh, which one?” the blonde says. “The purple one? I like the purple one best. Slimmer, but it’s got a good length.”

“Paris…” Rome says.

Paris pops her gum innocently.

“Don’t try to coax me into a good mood. I am not in a good mood.”

“Sometimes I like it when you’re not in a good mood.”

Rome seems to be fighting down a smile. She glances around at the dancers, who are watching her avidly, then back at Paris. “Let’s go have a little chat with Mr J.”

“And then maybe the other thing?”

“No,” Rome says firmly.

“You’re just no fun any more.”

Rome weaves her way back through the tables, towards the door. “Take over for me, Carmen.”

“Of course,” Carmen says.

“Later, boys,” Paris says, waving her fingers over her shoulder as she follows after Rome. Her ass swings like a pendulum.

Mike stares after her.

“No,” Carmen says.

“What?” Mike says, but he’s smiling.

“Don’t go there. Rome wants us to have as little to do with Mr J as possible.”

“He owns the strip club next door?”

Carmen nods. “The owners of this place were always complaining about the noise and rubbish from his establishment, so he bought them out. I think he meant to knock it down, but Rome convinced him to rent it to her on the cheap.”

“So she used to dance for him?” Mike doesn’t know why it didn’t occur to him before now. Rome moves with a dancer’s grace, and she clearly knows the stripping business.

“She was his star.”

“What happened?”

“That’s Rome’s business, don’t you think?” 

“Yeah, of course,” Mike says, holding up his hands. “I was just wondering.”

“Well, don’t.” Carmen puts her feet up on the chair next to her. “Okay, who’s next?”

Ten minutes ago, Mike changed into a pair of grey trousers and navy blazer that he picked up at Goodwill, along with a striped tie and a little pair of glasses. Looking down at himself now, he feels ridiculous all over again. “Rome and I were talking about me trying this preppy thing, maybe?” 

Mike also prepared a construction worker routine, just in case, but he obviously can’t perform that now. So he does the preppy thing, feeling kind of stupid and waiting for Carmen to confirm it, but all she does is scratch her chin thoughtfully and say, “You know, I don’t hate it.” 

“That’s…” Mike says. “Good?”

“It’s different,” Carmen says. “We can always do with something different.”

“It’s like that new show,” Taye says, snapping his fingers. “With the rich teenagers in New York.”

“Right, yeah,” Carmen says. “Maybe our queens will like a little prep school action. We’ll put it on and see.”

“Cool,” Mike says. “Thanks.”

“Now you,” Carmen says, turning to Caleb. “What else have you got?”

The air comes back on twenty minutes later to assorted cheers. Rome returns soon after that, an unreadable expression on her face, and goes up to her office.

 

Mike still has his doubts about the preppy thing as his slot approaches, but it’s too late to back out now. As he steps out onto the stage, he sees a flash of white up the back of the club. Rome, standing by the bar, watching him.

The routine _kills_. Mike makes more from one song than he did the entire night last Saturday.

Maybe Rome knows a little something about what women want after all.

 

Mike’s the last one to be called up to Rome’s office, as usual. He’s the most recent hire, the lowest in the pecking order.

The air conditioning cut out again, right when the club was closing, and the place feels like an oven inside a sauna on the surface of the sun. Rome’s signature suit is hanging on the back of the door, and she’s wearing a white t-shirt that probably belongs to one of the dancers. It’s comically large on her, falling off one shoulder and brushing over her thighs.

The pile of bills Mike pushes across the desk is much larger than last week’s. 

“You were right,” he says, “about the routine.”

“Of course I was,” Rome says with her usual bravado, but her smile is tired. “Come up with something new next week, and we’ll talk about giving you a second slot in the back half of the show.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Rome picks up her pen, clearly dismissing him.

Mike pauses in the doorway. “One question?”

“Shoot.”

“Did I make you wet?”

Rome’s eyes narrow.

Mike gives her his little smile. The adorable one. “That’s your criteria for a good routine, right? I just wanted to know if I succeeded.”

Rome slides her chair slowly back from her desk, then puts one foot on the outside rung. The hem of her t-shirt slides up far enough that he can see her panties between them. They’re white and lacy.

“Why don’t you come over here and check,” she says.

Mike walks forwards and folds to his knees.

Rome hooks her thigh over his shoulder and draws him in. A couple of minutes later, she pushes him back.

“What the fuck’s wrong with the girls in Mississippi that they let you do that?”

“Fuck you,” Mike says, but he’s laughing. Why should he expect anything about Rome to be easy? “I’ll have you know I’ve received rave reviews.”

“From teenage girls who don’t know any better.”

“Guess I need to be schooled by a woman,” Mike says.

“Guess you do,” Rome says.

“So do you know any?”

Rome puts her foot in the middle of his chest and shoves, and Mike flops dramatically back onto the carpet. He tucks his hands behind his head, grinning up at her. From this angle, it’s quite a view.

“You’re like an unruly puppy, aren’t you?” Rome says. “All floppy ears and impulse.”

“Maybe I just need a firm hand.”

“On your ass?”

“If you’re into that,” Mike says. “Or you could just show me how you like it.”

“Do I have to teach you everything, Magic?”

Mike rocks backwards, pushing himself up into a handstand. His t-shirt falls down to his shoulders, and as he drops back to his knees, he shakes himself out of it. Mike crawls forwards in nothing but his khaki shorts.

He presses his lips to Rome’s ankle like an offering.

“Anything you want to teach me, ma’am, I’m interested in learning.”

 

Half an hour later, Mike’s knees are numb, his jaw is aching, and his brain is floating free. His world’s narrowed to nothing but the delta between Rome’s legs, the warm and the slick of her, the pulse of pleasure beneath her skin. It’s not even about making her come any more. It’s about keeping them both on that blissful high.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Busy,” Rome says, winding her fingers in Mike’s hair like he was thinking of moving away. Yeah, right.

“Rome, do you still need a ride?” Carmen says, through the door. “I’ve got to get home before Xavi leaves for his shift.”

“One minute.”

“Ten, max,” Carmen says, her voice already fading as she walks away. “I mean it.”

Rome tugs Mike backwards. Mike makes a soft sound of protest, blinking as the world comes back into focus.

She’s gleaming. Glistening. Gorgeous.

“One more for the road,” he says, sliding his tongue along her thigh. 

After he’s brought her off again — glorious and unfettered — Rome stands up from her chair. She gets dressed and gathers her things together as Mike tries to remember how to breathe without the scent of her in his lungs.

Rome pauses with her hand on the doorknob. She turns back to look at him.

“Open your shorts,” she says, and Mike does.

“Get your cock out,” she says, and Mike does.

“Come for me,” she says, and Mike damn well does.

 

Mike cleans himself up with his t-shirt, then realises he’s going to have to walk downstairs in just his shorts. Hopefully everybody’s already left.

Taye is sitting in the dressing room, reading a textbook with a highlighter in his hand. He’s studying some sort of biochemical something-or-other. Mike lost track of what he was saying about five seconds into the explanation.

“Are you waiting for me?” Mike says, shoving his balled-up shirt into the bottom of his bag. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“I have to get through four chapters by Monday,” Taye says with a shrug. “Doesn’t matter if I do it here or at home.”

Well, look at that. It seems Mike’s made a friend without even intending to.

“Let me buy you a drink tomorrow,” he says. “We can go to that bar on the corner, maybe play some pool.”

“Yeah,” Taye says, packing up his things. “All right.”

The outside air is cooler, but barely. Mike winds down the passenger window and sticks out his hand, letting it ride the breeze.

“Would warning you do any good?” Taye says.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mike says.

“I love Rome like a sister, don’t get me wrong. But she eats boys like you for breakfast.”

“Are you calling me toast, man?”

“Maybe I’m calling you white bread.”

Mike smiles, and then he chuckles, and then he breaks into laughter.

Taye gives him a curious look.

“I just realised I really do owe the girls in Mississippi an apology,” Mike says.

 

The quarterback routine Mike comes up with kills even harder than the preppy one. Apparently women love the look of his body in those tight white pants.

Women, and also Rome. She corners him backstage, says, “Wear those when you come up and see me,” and strides off before he can reply.

Mike had been wondering if last weekend was a one-off. He goes back to the dressing room with a spring in his step and his costume held casually in front of him, because you can’t hide much in a jockstrap.

That night, Mike leans against the jamb in Rome’s office, one arm raised above his head, elbow bent. “You going to be the head cheerleader?”

“Save the role-playing for your girlfriend.”

“Really, such romance,” Mike says, pressing his hand to his chest. “My heart can’t take it.”

“Close the door, Magic,” Rome says.

Mike closes the door.

 

Over the next month, Mike feels like he’s finally found his rhythm in Savannah. He works construction Monday to Friday, dances on Friday and Saturday nights, and spends the early hours on his knees. He’s getting good at reading Rome’s moods, knowing when she wants something slow and tender, or playful and sweet, or hard and fast and grinding.

He wonders what the guys would say back home, if they knew he was hooking up with a woman like her.

He wonders what they’d say if they knew she’s never touched him. Half the time, she doesn’t even stay in the room as he gets off.

Mike always means to mention it, like, Hey, maybe a little reciprocity? But then Rome looks at him with those gorgeous eyes, and opens those gorgeous legs, and Mike’s knees are bending before he even thinks about it. He tells himself it probably wouldn’t be that different from his own hand anyway.

At least until the night Rome pushes Mike against the wall and opens his shorts, and suddenly he’s is very, very interested in Rome-assisted orgasms.

Rome strokes him up, brisk and hard, then takes her hand away. She carefully zips his shorts closed again.

“What?” Mike says, blinking. Every nerve in his body feels like it’s straining towards release. “That’s— what?”

Rome pets the front of his shorts. “If you don’t come before next Friday, I’ll get you off.”

“I could lie,” Mike points out.

Rome grips his chin, her nails digging into his skin. “Are you going to lie to me, Magic?”

“No, ma’am,” Mike says.

 

On Tuesday night, Rome texts him. _Check the pocket of your bag_.

Mike pulls out a pair of of Rome’s panties, white and silky. Fuck.

He’s not going to smell them. That would be weird, right? Really weird. Really, really— 

Mike falls back onto his bed, swearing. They smell like her. 

Okay, well he’s definitely not going to stroke himself with them. 

Oh, they’re so soft…

Mike runs the silk up and down, imagining it’s Rome’s fingertips on his overheated skin. He closes his eyes as the pleasure spikes through him.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Mike’s gripping the sheets and trying to remember what you’re supposed to think about when you’re fighting off orgasm. Is it baseball rosters? Basketball? Football? Why would the specific sport matter?

By the time Mike’s debated the relative attractiveness of players in the major sports, he’s calmed down enough to get up and take a nice, cold shower.

He definitely thinking about baseball players next time.

 

 

Mike spends most of Friday achingly hard. He’s twenty, okay? 

As uncomfortable as it is hammering with a hard-on, getting up on stage and taking off his clothes off is even worse. Half the front row is blushing at him as the other half looks on hungrily. Mike focuses on his routines and tries not to poke anybody’s eye out.

He does make a lot in tips.

When Rome finally calls him up to her office, Mike takes her panties out of his pocket and drops them on the desk. “I believe these belong to you.”

Rome stares at them. “They’re not mine.”

“Yes, they are,” Mike says. “Do you think I’m just running around with random women’s underthings in my bag?”

“Do you think I don’t know about the queen you picked up last month?”

Yeah, there was a girl, and she was cute, and she winked at Mike as she pressed her phone number into his thong along with a fifty dollar bill. Mike took her to a movie, and then they went back to her place for dessert. He never knew whipped cream could be that messy.

It was the week before Rome took him to school. It seems like a million years ago now.

“They’re yours,” he says firmly.

Rome chuckles and says, “Turn around.”

Mike turns around.

There’s some sounds behind him, like Rome is getting undressed or something, and then— putting her clothes back on?

“Have you been going commando this entire night? Fuck. Fuck,” Mike says, closing his eyes as his body roars. He bangs his forehead against the wall a couple of times.

Rome strolls across the room. Mike can hear the soft sounds of her heels against the rug, feel the change in the air as she comes up behind him. She presses a hand to the small of Mike’s back, and he starts to shake.

“Look at you,” she says, all dark amusement. Her voice rubs over his skin like— no, don’t think about her panties again.

“Please,” Mike says through gritted teeth.

Rome’s hand slips under the hem of his t-shirt. She toys with the button on his jeans.

“So I have a question,” she says.

“Yes,” Mike says urgently. “The answer is yes.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet.”

“As long as it ends with me getting off, I don’t give a damn. You want to spank my ass, scratch my skin up, do some kinky shit to me? I don’t even care. Just do it,” Mike says, arching into her hand. “Do it.”

“You want to get off in my hand now…”

“ _Yes_ ,” Mike says.

“…or my mouth next week?”

Mike tries to say something, but no words come out.

“Take a minute,” Rome says, sounding so calm whilst Mike is so overwhelmed that he kind of loves her for a second. “No rush.”

Mike swallows a couple of times, trying to get his throat working again. “So if waiting one week is oral,” he manages to say, “what do I get if I wait for three?”

Rome laughs and pushes him into the wall. She’s got one hand on the back of his neck and a thigh between his own, and she slips her other hand, her lovely, amazing, incredible hand, into his jeans. Mike comes before he’s even thought about it, fireworks and explosions and all that stuff he always thought poets were making up to try to get girls.

“Fuck,” he says, falling down onto his knees. His jeans are sagging around his thighs. “I mean— fuck.”

When he finally pulls himself together and turns around, Rome is sitting behind her desk again, suit perfect, not a hair out of place.

She delicately licks her fingers. 

Mike shudders.

 

On Saturday, the air conditioning cuts out during rehearsal again.

“I swear to fucking god,” Rome says into her phone. “If the air doesn’t come back on in the next five minutes, I’m going to have a new cock to add to my collection, because I’ll be cutting off Mr J’s.”

Four and a half minutes later, a large bald man in a cream summer suit comes sauntering in.

“Rome, my dear!” he calls out in a booming voice. “If you wanted my dick, you only had to ask.”

“Fuck you,” Rome says. “Stop screwing with my business.”

“When I agreed to this little folly, what did I tell you?”

Rome says, with obvious reluctance, “That I could do whatever I wanted as long as I paid the rent.”

“And have you paid the rent?”

“I was getting caught up, but then we had those torrential storms last weekend.”

Noah would’ve thought twice about going out in those storms, and so did a lot of women. Mike’s tips were way down.

“You’re five weeks behind,” Mr J says.

“Not five,” Rome says, and pauses. “Is it five?”

“All I’m asking for is the money that you owe me.” Mr J spreads his hands like he’s a reasonable man in a most unreasonable situation. “Does that not seem fair?”

“You know I’m good for it.”

“What I know is that you can make it up in a couple of nights next door,” Mr J says. “The regulars would love to see you again.”

“No,” Rome says.

“Then it appears we’re at an impasse.”

“You’ll end my business if we have no air tonight. Then you’ll be getting exactly jack and shit.”

“Don’t you think I’ve indulged you in this long enough? Come back where you belong.”

Rome gets slowly to her feet. She’s wearing her white suit, as usual, and she smooths her hands down her vest as though she’s gathering her strength in her palms.

“Let’s go talk,” she says, her voice dangerous.

Rome strides out the front door. For a moment, the afternoon sun silhouettes her against the world beyond, and then she’s gone.

 

Rome does her usual introductions that night — Taye likes to call it the Welcoming of the Queens — but then she ducks out the side door. 

“Isaiah will be MCing,” Carmen says, in a voice that invites no questions.

Isaiah is a reasonable-enough MC, Mike supposes, but nobody can be Rome. The whole night feels off-kilter, like two melodies that are slightly out of sync.

 

Rome’s returned by the time Mike goes up to tip out. 

She’s sitting behind her desk, as she always is, but nothing else is right. She’s wearing a tank top and jeans, and her face is all dolled up: heavy eyeshadow, false lashes, deep red lips. Her braids have been twisted into a complicated updo.

She’s like a superhero who’s lost her powers.

Mike puts her cut on the desk. Rome goes to take it, and he brushes her fingertips with his own.

Rome snatches her hand back like she’s been burnt. “Don’t,” she snaps.

“I just thought…”

“Do I pay you to think?”

“No,” Mike says, trying not to show how much that stung.

“Sorry,” Rome mutters, rubbing her temples. 

There’s a bottle of champagne on the corner of the desk, tied with those cheap, thin ribbons that Mike’s aunt used to curl over a scissor blade when she was wrapping presents. The attached card says _WELCOME BACK_.

Mike plonks himself down in the seat opposite Rome’s desk and gestures towards the champagne. “Mind if I do?”

Rome makes a half-hearted gesture that might be assent.

Mike takes a sip. “Wow, that’s terrible,” he says, spluttering. “And I’ll drink just about anything.”

Rome grabs the bottle from him and takes a good, long swig.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mike says.

“Do I look like I want to talk about it?”

“You look like you want to throw some hot young stud down onto your rug and work your anger out on him.” Mike leans back in his chair, putting his arms behind his head. “Let me know if you need a volunteer.”

“Damn, did Caleb leave already?” Rome says, but her heart’s not in it.

Mike tries the champagne again. Yep, still terrible. They sit in silence for a while, passing the bottle back and forth.

“You’re building something really special here,” Mike says eventually, and Rome gives him a ghost of a smile. “How long until it all goes under?”

Rome looks like she wants to deny it, but eventually, she shrugs.

“Sometimes it takes a while for a fresh concept to catch on in the marketplace.”

“I don’t have a while,” Rome says.

“And if you keep making up the shortfalls by working next door, you lose a lot of what makes this place tick.”

“Exactly.”

“Let me take a look at the books? Maybe I can come up with something.”

“Yeah, that’s what I need,” Rome says. “Some boy-child telling me how to run my business.”

“If I can find a way to make you more money this month, you pay me 20% of it. Otherwise, I get nothing. What have you got to lose?”

“Go away, Magic,” Rome says.

Mike stands up, and then he hesitates. Does she want…?

“Go away,” Rome repeats, and so he does.

 

Mike rides home tasting cheap champagne on the back of his tongue instead of Rome. 

“You lasted longer than most of Rome’s boys,” Taye says, clearly trying to be kind.

“Bully for me,” Mike says.

 

Rome dances for Mr J next weekend, too. Everybody’s in a collective bad mood back at Domina, and the tips are terrible.

Late that night, Mike pushes Rome’s cut across the desk and says, “Offer still stands, ma’am.”

Rome snorts and waves him out of her office, but when he gets back to his apartment, Mike finds the ledger in the bottom of his bag. There’s a post-it stuck to the front with one word written on it in bold red ink: _DEAL_.

The ledger is a mess. Scratched-out numbers, receipts shoved randomly between pages, and Mike has no idea what half the notations mean. It takes him until five am to sort through everything, and once he has, he almost wishes he hadn’t. 

The club’s barely breaking even a good night. Rome came in with a nice stake saved up, but that’s all gone now, and earlier in the year she sold her car and put that money into Domina, too. She’s propping up the club by dancing for Mr J, but the moment she stops, the death spiral will begin again.

Mike leans back in his chair and thinks.

As the sun is rising, sends a text. _You up?_

_Yeah_ , Rome replies.

_Come meet me at the bar near my place?_

By the time Mike’s had a shower and walked down the street, Rome is already sitting at a table. Her eyes are dull, like she’s been up all night, too.

Rome pushes a glass of scotch his way, and he takes it with a nod of thanks. Hers is already half-empty.

“So what’ve you got for me?” Rome says.

Instead of answering, Mike leans back on his stool and says, “You never asked me what I did before I came here.”

“That’s because I don’t care.”

“As long as I look pretty and please your queens, right?”

“You got it.”

“I’m from a tiny town in Mississippi. Maybe ‘town’ isn’t even the right word. It’s a traffic light you pass through to get to someplace else. My dad owned the town bar, and he was also its best customer. I handled the money from when I was thirteen years old, because my mom cut out and my dad was pretty bad at keeping track of anything but booze. He could tell you exactly how much of every spirit we had, right down to the remaining pours, but he couldn’t remember to buy groceries.

“He wasn’t a bad dad, when he was sober,” Mike says. “He just wasn’t sober very often. He died last year. Liver failure.”

Rome touches his arm softly.

“It was a long time coming,” Mike says with a shrug. “The point is, I know how bars work. And a strip club is basically a bar with added ass, yeah?”

“No, but that’s downright poetic.”

“On an average night, you’re spending more than you’re making, so you have to either raise your profits or cut your costs.” Mike takes a list out of his pocket and unfolds it, snapping the paper a couple of times. “Suggestion one: Raise the cover charge by $5 a person.”

“No,” Rome says immediately.

“Come on, at least hear me out.”

“I’m not raising the cover. I know what my queens can afford.”

“Raise the price of drinks, then.”

“No,” Rome says.

Mike makes an exasperated sound.

“Like I said, I know what my queens can afford.”

“Okay, but some of them can definitely afford more. What about some kind of VIP area?”

“Too elitist.”

“Memberships with special privileges?” 

“Likewise.”

“What if you raise the price of all the drinks by a small amount, but raise the price of the top shelf drinks by more? Add some really fancy cocktails, too. The queens who are on a budget won’t pay much more, but the ones who can afford it will make up for them.”

“Now that…” Rome says slowly. “That’s an idea worth exploring.”

“If you make even two hundred more a week, you can pay for better advertising. Then get some flyers made up, those postcard things. Have some of the guys go out into nightclubs and give them to girls. Tell them they want to do it because it’ll bring more women into the club, which gets them more tips, which means more money in their pockets.”

Rome nods.

“As for cutting costs, you need to let Isaiah go.”

“No,” Rome says. “Isaiah’s been with me since the beginning.”

“You can’t afford him. He’s making more money than anyone who’s keeping their clothes on, including you.”

“I need a DJ.”

“You can get by with a CD player plugged into the sound system for a couple of months. The guys can take shifts running it when they’re not up dancing.”

“Isaiah does a lot of the intros, too.”

“Only because you’re so busy keeping everything moving behind the scenes. What if you could become a full-time MC when the club is open? Spend all the time interacting with your queens?”

“And how am I going to do that?”

“Carmen can handle the backstage, if you let her. Bump her title up to Manager, take half of the money you were paying Isaiah, and give it to her instead.”

“And the other half?”

Mike takes a breath, because this is going to be the hard part. “Give it to me to handle the business side. I’ll keep the ledger, pay the bills, organise the salaries and the nightly cuts, even deal with Mr J if you want. Let’s free you up to do the stuff you’re good at.”

“Nobody runs my business but me.”

“You’ll still be running it,” Mike says. “You’ll just be delegating. Even queens don’t do everything themselves, right? They have advisors and servants and snooty British people to help them.”

Rome takes a long drink of her scotch. “What else you got?”

“That’s about it.”

Mike pushes the ledger down the bar. Rome runs her finger along the edge of it, slow and kind of sad.

“You know what women want, and you know how to give it to them,” Mike says. “That’s way more valuable than the ability to balance a chequebook. So do the stuff you’re good at and farm out the rest.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Sure thing,” Mike says. He knocks the rest of his scotch back. “I need to go crash. Big day installing sheetrock tomorrow, very exciting.”

Mike goes to climb off his bar stool, but before he can, Rome catches her fingers in his t-shirt. She turns her head, brushing their lips together.

“Magic,” she says, meaning _Thank you_.

“Ma’am,” he says. _You’re welcome_.

Mike walks home and faceplates onto the bed.

 

Rome asks Mike to come in early next Friday. When he gets there, construction dust clinging to his clothing and sweat through his hair, she’s clutching the ledger in her hands.

“One month,” she says. “Let’s try your ideas for one month.”

“You sure?” Mike looks at her vice-like grip on the ledger. “Because you don’t look sure.”

Rome hesitates, and then she holds the book out to him. 

She also lets Isaiah go. Mike’s in the shower whilst she does it, scrubbing the day’s hard work from his skin, but he manages to walk out into the hallway in nothing but a towel just as Isaiah comes storming down the stairs.

Isaiah’s a big guy, which Mike has only really thought about in the abstract before. As Isaiah stalks towards him, the breadth of his shoulders blocking much of the light from the hallway, Mike has a whole new appreciation for his size. Or perhaps appreciation isn’t the word. Perhaps it’s fear.

“She says it was her idea,” Isaiah says. “She’s lying, right?”

Mike shrugs. “If Rome says it was her idea, it was her idea.”

Isaiah gives him a dirty look and goes out the door. 

Rome is standing half-way down the stairs, her hand on the bannister. “I wasn’t sure if he was going to punch you or kiss you.”

“So you thought you’d just stand there and watch?”

“Well, if it was the latter…”

Mike chuckles, and his towel slips over his hipbones. He grabs at it before it can fall to the floor.

Rome’s gaze is raking over him. She’s seen him in a thong dozens of times, but this feels different, somehow. More intimate. Part of it is the towel, probably. The rest of it is that they’re the only two people in the club right now.

A week ago, Mike would’ve dropped the towel and seen what happened. But that was before Rome handed him the ledger, before she put her trust in him. Before he had the tiniest chance to become something more than a nobody from Nowhere, Mississippi.

Mike hitches his towel higher and goes into the dressing room.

 

Before the show that night, Rome gathers everybody together.

“We’re on a knife’s edge here. If things don’t change in the next couple of weeks…” She doesn’t want to say it, but they all know what she means. “So, we’re trying something new tonight. Carmen’s going to be managing backstage….”

Claps and cheers. Several dancers slap Carmen on the shoulder.

“…I’m going to spend the whole time out front, and Magic’s going to handle the money.”

“Magic?” one of the other dancers says. “Come on.”

“It’s a smart move,” Rome says. “We need somebody to blame when it all goes belly up.”

“Yeah, fuck you,” Mike says lazily.

Rome raises one eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Mike goes to sass her again, but something in her eyes stops him. The other dancers aren’t fools; they know Mike’s been spending a lot of time up in Rome’s office, and even if they don’t know the details, they can make a good guess. She needs to make it clear that she’s still the one in charge.

“Happy to help out any way I can,” Mike says, inclining his head.

“That’s my good boy,” Rome says, and spreads her arms. “You’re all my good boys. We’re going to make this work,” she says, and everybody kind of shuffles in, group hug, very warm and fuzzy until one of the others dancers says, “Is it me, or is this really kind of gay?”

“Did we not tell them about that change?” Mike says.

Rome rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling for the first time in weeks.

 

The following weekend, Mike and Rome sit in her office early Sunday morning and take stock. Numbers are up slightly, but even better, the average spend-per-queen is rising thanks to the new drink prices and general enthusiasm on the floor. Everybody brought their A game this week.

“The bigger ad doesn’t seem to have made much of a difference, but the flyers were a hit,” Rome says. “Several of the guys have already offered to go out with them again.”

“That’s because they picked up,” Mike says. “Did you see those twins in the front row?” Right now, they’re probably in somebody’s back seat, getting a good story to tell their friends.

“As long as they’re bringing fresh queens into Domina, it’s all good.”

Mike’s been doing sums on a scrap piece of paper. “Last night, you were down $294, but tonight you were up $303. So that’s a total profit of $9 for the weekend.”

Rome couldn’t look more pleased if he’d told her it was ten thousand. All that matters is being in the black. She puts her feet up on the corner of the desk and says, “And Domina lives to ride another weekend.”

“Indeed she does.”

“You want to go grab something to eat?” Rome says. “Celebrate a little?”

“Nah,” Mike says. “I should work on this stuff some more.”

“Right,” Rome says. “Of course.”

 

With her freed-up time, Rome hustles them some publicity. The local alt-weekly paper does a little feature on the club, which helps Rome get onto a couple of Savannah radio shows, and that catches the attention of a writer at the women’s website that Gawker’s just launched.

Jezebel’s profile on Domina is a huge hit, because they ask Rome all the dirty, sexy questions other media will only dance around. In the accompanying photo, Rome sits on a throne in her signature white suit, legs slightly apart, looking directly at the camera. Powerful and in control.

“Hot damn,” Caleb says, coming in to work that night. “Did you see Rome?”

Yeah, Mike saw it. He may or may not have thought about that photo last night, when he was lying on the couch. And in the shower. And in bed.

Things slowly snowball from there. Rome’s on a couple more radio shows, and a local morning tv show, and even gets a tiny mention in an issue of Cosmo. The gossip blogs discover her. The feminist blogs love her. Excited reviews spring up on social media. Rome gets invited onto _Ellen_ with Taye and Mike, and the highlight of Mike’s life so far just might be teaching Ellen DeGeneres how to roll her body.

On stage, Mike keeps dancing. He and Taye come up with a Gladiator-themed routine where a pair of dancers have a strip-off and the audience gives them a thumbs up or thumbs down, complete with paper laurel crowns. It’s awesome.

Off stage, Mike keeps handling the business stuff. He and Rome spend a lot of time up in her tiny office, working side by side. 

Sometimes, late at night, Mike looks up and sees Rome watching him with that sloe-eyed look that used to make him fold to his knees.

Mike swallows and goes back to his paperwork.

 

As Christmas approaches, Mike comes back from a meeting and says, “Mr J wants to raise the rent again.”

Mr J hasn’t been blind to how well Rome is doing. This is the second time he’s raised the rent in five months.

“No,” Rome says.

“You can afford it,” Mike says. “it’s not ideal, but we can make it work.”

“No,” Rome says. “No more Mr J.”

“What, you want to find someplace else?”

“Not someplace else,” Rome says. “Someplace _bigger_.”

It makes sense, when Mike thinks about it. They’ve already re-arranged the furniture twice to get more seats into the club, and Rome refuses to add any more; she wants to keep that casual grouped ambience of the chairs and couches to make her queens feel relaxed. If they find something ASAP, they can be ready for next spring and summer, when the bachelorette parties are in full swing and the ladies are looking for love, or at least a good night out with some attractive men taking their clothes off for them.

Mike researches up a shortlist of half a dozen places and takes Rome around to see them.

“Wrong, wrong, wrong, those were all wrong,” Rome says afterwards. They’re sitting in her apartment, drinking their frustrations away with a very decent scotch. “And I’m pretty sure that last one used to be a Pizza Hut.”

“I know they’re not great,” Mike says. “But not-great is what you can afford.” Domina may be a success now, but it’s a modest one — a strip club for women will never make the kind of money that a strip club for men does. Setting up a new space is going to take a huge chunk of change, and Mike wants to make sure they do it right.

“We can find better,” Rome says, with the same confidence she says everything.

“Sure,” Mike says, but he’s not really thinking about the business any more. 

The setting sun is washing over Rome, and he misses her. Mike spends a dozen hours a week working by her side, and she’s sitting not three feet away right now, and he _misses her_. And he’s just drunk enough to indulge those feelings instead of pushing them aside.

Mike stretches his arms along the top of the sofa. Rome leans back against his hand, then rolls her head to look at him.

“It’s getting on,” Rome says.

“Yeah,” Mike says.

“You should probably go.”

“Yeah,” Mike says.

“Or you could stay.”

“Yeah,” Mike says, and Rome’s smile is sweeter than he’s ever seen it. He curls his hand around the back of her neck, stroking his thumb against her nape, drawing Rome into him as she kisses him, softly at first and then harder, her fingers twisting in Mike’s hair. 

Mike picks her up and takes her into the bedroom, putting her on the edge of the bed before he goes down to his knees.

“I missed this,” he murmurs against her thigh, because it’s easier to say than the other thing. _I missed you._

“ _You_ missed this,” Rome says, arching.

Mike pulls out every trick she ever taught him, and Rome’s nails dig into Mike’s shoulders the same way they always did when she comes. She tugs him up onto the comforter afterwards, pushes him down and strokes him all over with her lovely hands, with her clever mouth, and that, that’s not familiar at all. 

Rome waits until Mike is good and worked up, and then she climbs off the bed.

“No, come on,” Mike says. “Let me have at least one orgasm before you start fucking with my head.”

Rome comes out of the bathroom with a condom in her hand and an amused expression on her face.

“Oh,” Mike says. 

“See, now I’m reconsidering,” she says, her eyes raking over him. “You look good when you’re frustrated.”

“You should see how much better I look when I’m well-fucked.”

Rome grins and tears the condom open with her teeth.

 

That night, they sit out on Rome’s tiny balcony and drink wine. She’s wedged one of those papasan chairs out there, and it’s just big enough to fit the two them and a blanket with a little creativity.

“So tell me the dream,” Mike says. “Where do you see Domina in ten years?”

“It’s a mansion.”

“Oh, of course,” Mike says.

Rome closes her eyes, like she can already see it all in her head. “There’s no stages, no spotlights, no barriers between the queens and the dancers. Just a series of rooms with a series of vignettes. You can move through the space however you feel like, stopping to take one dancer in, or sampling them all. Every queen is in control of her pleasure.”

“That sounds incredible,” Mike says, even as he can’t help wondering how she’ll ever pay for it.

“And what about you,” she says. “Where are you in ten years? Still dancing?”

“God, I hope not,” Mike says.

“What, then?”

Mike hesitates. Rome leans back against him, and he wraps his arm across her chest. 

He’s never told anybody about his dream of building furniture, but he tells Rome. He ends with, “And then one day you call me up, and you ask me to make furniture for your pleasure palace, and I design all these sexy, sinuous things for your queens to recline on. Maybe some things for your office, too. Pale suede, dark wood and brass. Strong but feminine.”

“And then what?” Rome says.

“And then you thank me by fucking me on every single piece.”

Rome laughs. 

“You’re not going to have that recovery time in ten years,” she says. “It’d take us a while to fuck on all that furniture.”

“That’s all right,” Mike says. “I won’t be in any rush to leave.”

Rome turns and kisses him slowly, catches his lower lip between her teeth and bites down just hard enough to make his blood run hot.

“I’m going to make it happen,” she says, steel beneath the softness of her voice. “All of it.”

 

“I found a place,” Rome says, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. “It was in front of me all along.” 

She pulls up in front of a large stone hall which might’ve been suitable, if not for the partially-collapsed roof and obvious neglect.

“Ta da!” Rome says.

“Uh huh,” Mike says.

“There used to be a church here,” Rome says, pointing to an overgrown patch of weeds nearby. “It was struck by lightning in the ‘80s and burnt to the ground. The hall was damaged in the fire, but considered historic and salvageable, and long story short, they couldn’t afford to repair it but nobody wanted to buy it either. Eventually they just built a new church down the street.”

“And it’s been rotting here ever since.” 

“It’s got character,” Rome says. “It’s got history.”

“It’s got woodland creatures,” Mike says, looking at the droppings on the ground. “And god knows what else.”

“Just come inside,” Rome says.

The inside is huge and light-filled, thanks to the holes in the roof. “We can build some partitions against the side wall, kind of like rooms,” Rome says, sketching them out with her hands. “Have a bigger backstage, a real rehearsal space. And there’ll still be enough square footage to almost double our main stage.”

“You know how much this is going to cost, right?”

“I can buy it for a song,” Rome says. “And once it’s paid off, it’s mine. No more giving my profits to The Man.”

“You can be The Man,” Mike says. “The Woman.”

“The Queen.” She laughs, low and throaty. “And this will be my queendom.”

Rome has climbed up onto a small pile of rubble at the far end. She’s looking out over the space, a small smile on her face.

She spreads her arms and says, “Welcome, my queens.”

 

Mike goes for a walk around the outside of the hall, checking everything out. They’ll need a structural engineer to confirm the place is still safe, and then an architect, a builder… “It’s going to be crap-ton of work,” he says, when Rome comes up beside him.

“But it’s possible.”

“But it’s possible,” Mike agrees. “And if you go ahead, I want to talk about equity.”

“No.”

“Just a little bit.”

“No.”

Mike stops walking, so Rome will stop walking. He turns and looks at her so she can see how serious he is. “We saved this place, the two of us. You and me.”

“Domina is mine,” Rome says.

Mike shoves his hands in his jacket and heads back to the car.

 

Two things happen in the spring: Taye gets into med school and is moving to California, and Rome announces Caleb is the new lead dancer.

Mike’s genuinely happy for Taye, and he wishes him well.

Mike’s genuinely unhappy about Caleb, and he walks out of the room.

He feels kind of stupid, afterwards. Like that was maybe a little melodramatic. But Mike can’t shake the feeling that he’s stagnating here, that he’s working hard but not getting anywhere, that he’s making money for everybody but himself. Just because The Man is a woman doesn’t make it any more palatable.

Rome leans against the door jamb a few minutes later. 

“I have to do what’s right for Domina,” she says. “You being the lead dancer is not right for Domina.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“You knew what you were getting into, boy, the moment you walked in the door.”

The muscle in Mike’s jaw jumps. “Don’t call me that.”

Rome strokes her index finger along his cheek. “You’ll always be my boy, Magic.”

“I’m your boy on the stage, but I also run your business. When we’re talking like this, you talk to me as an equal.”

“Mike Lane,” Rome says, slow and deliberate and, Mike suspects, slightly mocking, “you will never be my lead dancer.”

Mike walks around the room, feeling the twist in his stomach, the itch beneath his skin. The last time he felt this way, he packed his things and hit the highway, thumb out.

“I’m taking a break,” he decides. “Starting immediately.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I’ve been working here for over a year. I have rights,” Mike says, though to be honest, he’s not really sure. “I’m going back home for a while.”

“All right,” she says grudgingly. “At least give me a kiss before you go.”

Mike leans down and kisses her on the cheek. 

“Fuck that,” Rome says, twisting her hand in his t-shirt. She pushes him down onto the couch and straddles his lap as Mike fumbles open his jeans, because no matter what else is going on in their lives, this will always work between them.

 

Mike has a reliable old Civic now. He drives back to Mississippi and crashes with a couple of his high school buddies.

They treat him like a hometown hero returned.

“Fuck, man,” Tony says. “I can’t believe you’re a stripper now.”

“And a businessman,” Mike says.

“What’s it like?”

Mike guesses Tony’s not asking about balancing the books. “It’s like taking off my clothes in front of a bunch of screaming women.”

“Shit,” Tony says. “That’s the life. That’s what I should be doing.”

“So do you have a girl?” Chris says.

“Of course he don’t have a girl!” Tony says. “He’s drowning in pussy over there.”

“Yeah,” Mike says. “Drowning.”

 

After two days, Mike members why he left his hometown. He sticks it out another three, then drives back to Savannah.

He pulls up at Domina just as it’s opening.

“Welcome back,” the bouncer says. 

“Thanks, man,” Mike says.

It’s been a while since Mike had time to just walk the floor. He looks around at the dancers, at the bartenders and the staff, at even the building itself, and knows it’s all covered. Even if they have a bad night — even if they have a bad month — Domina will survive.

“Hi, Mike,” a girl says.

“Hi,” Mike says automatically, and then he focuses on her face. “Tiana! Hey, girl. How’ve you been?”

Tiana points both thumbs at herself. “You’re looking at a graduating senior in Environmental Science.”

“That’s awesome,” Mike says. “Congrats.”

“What are you up to later? You should swing by my place. Charity and I have put a lot of work into it since last time you saw it.”

“Did you paint your bedroom ceiling?” Mike says. “Because that’s what I remember spending most of my time staring at.”

Tiana laughs and says, “You’ve still got the address, right?”

“Sure do.”

“Hope I’ll see you then.” 

Rome steps up beside him. The two of them watch Tiana making her way over to her friends.

“You’re back,” Rome says, her voice cool. “As a visitor or an employee?”

“As a business manager. I might take a break from dancing for a while.”

“We need to go over the books tonight."

"Sure," Mike says.

"Can I count on you to be here?”

“I’m not going to Tiana’s place. I was just flirting. That’s what I do. I flirt with women and they give me money, and then I give a cut of it to you.”

“You can fuck her if you want to,” Rome says. “Just don’t do it on my time.”

“I don’t want to fuck her. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you— are you still fucking other guys?” Mike says. “Other women?”

He and Rome have been together for over six months now, but Mike’s never quite managed to ask that before. Possibly because he doesn’t want to know the answer.

“The point is that you can,” Rome says. “If you want to.”

“I don’t want to,” he says. “Wait, are you fucking Caleb?”

Rome slaps him.

Mike clenches his jaw and says, “I’ll be upstairs.”

 

Rome comes up to the office after the dancers have finished tipping out, after the bartenders have finished cleaning up, after Carmen’s said her goodbyes. Basically, she avoids Mike for as long as possible. She brings two scotches with her and puts one on the desk in front of him.

“Thanks,” Mike says.

He knows how this will go. She’ll mumble an apology, and Mike will say he’s sorry, and they’ll fuck it out on the couch that Mike got two of the dancers to help him bring up a couple of months ago, because he kept getting rug burn on his back and ass.

Rome is puttering around the room, not saying anything. Okay, Mike will go first.

“I’m sor—“

“We should stop fucking around,” Rome says.

“Yes,” Mike says, feeling the relief flow through him. “Can we just sit down and have a conversation about this? About all of it? I think things started to go downhill when I asked for equity, and maybe that offended you in a way I hadn’t realised, and then there was the whole Caleb thing, and I was probably just a bit burnt out because I’ve been working so hard this last year, dancing, managing the business, keeping my day job. I’m working seventy hours a week and feel like I’m running in a giant hamster wheel. We can make a few changes. Make everything work again.”

Rome is listening to him, a furrow between her eyebrows. When he finally runs out of words, she says, “What I mean is, we should stop having sex.”

“Oh,” Mike says. “Why?”

“You got way too upset over a couple of business decisions.”

“It’s not because we’re having sex.”

“I think it is.”

“It’s not because we’re _having sex_ ,” Mike says. “Come on. You know what it is.”

“You’ll find another woman who likes it the way you like it.”

“I don’t want to have sex with some other woman. Are you really that blind?”

“We never made any promises.” Rome crosses her arms over her chest and says slowly, “If you did something, you know, if you were stupid enough to…”

“Fall in love with you?”

Rome turns away, staring out the window.

“Only a fucking idiot would do that,” Mike says.

 

The next night, Mike watches the show from the back of the club. The guys are doing a group routine that Mike created with himself in mind as the lead. But now it’s Caleb dancing up there in the space prince outfit, wielding his lightsaber like… yeah, stripping is not always a subtle art.

Somebody comes up beside him. _Rome_ , Mike thinks, but when he turns to look, it’s a guy.

“Hey, man,” Mike says.

“Howdy,” the guy drawls.

“I’m not sure how you got past the bouncer, but this is strictly a ladies’ establishment. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“I told him we had a business meeting.”

“We as in you and I?”

“We as in you and I, my brother.”

“Who are you, exactly?”

The guy doesn’t answer. He has a head of curls like an angel, and a voice like a cowboy who got lost on the way.

The two of them stand in silence a moment, watching Caleb grinding up on the stage.

“That should be you up there,” the guy says. “You’ve got the talent to headline a show.”

“Yeah,” Mike says with a snort. “You got a show that needs headlining?”

“Might just do,” the guy says.

Mike turns to look at him.

“How do you feel about Tampa?”

“I hear it’s lovely this time of year,” Mike says.

The guy sticks out his hand, and, after a moment, Mike shakes it.

 

When Mike meets Dallas, he’s a few years older and a fair bit less full of himself.

Turns out, he’s still kind of dumb.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [littlerhymes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/littlerhymes/profile) for the marvellous last-minute beta.


End file.
